Wednesday, June 15, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 2)
By mid-June, the house ran on exhaustion.
Eric Forman was almost four weeks old—born May 19, 1960—and he was loud in a way that didn't feel like Laurie's performance.
Eric's crying wasn't a power play.
It was need.
And Kitty responded to need like it was air—immediate, constant, no hesitation.
Kitty moved through the house in a haze of nursing, rocking, whispering, shushing. Her hair was messier. Her robe was always on. Her smiles were softer and more tired, like she had to reach for them now instead of wearing them automatically.
Red came home earlier some days, later others. When he was home, he hovered near the bassinet like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch anything. He'd stand there, staring at Eric's tiny face, jaw tight, eyes too intense.
Then he'd look away like emotion was a threat.
Laurie adjusted to Eric like she adjusted to everything:
By trying to reclaim control.
Laurie had become sweeter in public—patting Eric's blanket when Kitty watched, making "awww" sounds when visitors came over—then meaner in private, knocking toys off tables, slapping at Monica when she thought nobody saw, screaming just to see if Kitty would still come running.
And Monica—
Monica became what she'd always been, but sharper now:
A quiet stabilizer.
A shadow.
A witness.
That morning, Kitty sat in the rocking chair in the living room, Eric pressed against her chest, his tiny fist curled in the fabric of her robe like he owned her heartbeat.
Kitty looked down at him and whispered, "My baby boy."
Red sat in his chair with the newspaper open, but his eyes kept drifting off the page toward Kitty and Eric like the words couldn't compete.
Laurie sat on the rug near the coffee table, stacking blocks aggressively—every stack a demand for attention.
Monica sat beside her, calm, watching Laurie's hands.
Laurie stacked a tower, then shoved it toward Monica like a challenge.
Monica didn't take the bait.
Monica simply added one block to the top—slow, careful.
Laurie's eyes narrowed.
Laurie knocked the entire tower over with a sharp smack.
Red snapped automatically, "God—Laurie—"
Kitty flinched, trying not to wake Eric. "Red—shh—"
Red's jaw clenched. "Teach her—"
Kitty's voice tightened, exhausted. "I am teaching her, Red."
Red's mouth flattened.
Laurie grinned, satisfied she'd caused friction.
Monica kept her face blank, picked up a block, and began stacking again like none of it mattered.
Because Monica had learned something important since Eric's birth:
If she wanted stability, she couldn't fight Laurie head-on.
She had to make Laurie think she was winning, while slowly building something Laurie couldn't touch.
Something secret.
Something protected.
That afternoon, when Kitty finally managed to get Eric down for a nap, the whole house went into that fragile quiet that felt like holding a glass of water filled to the brim.
Kitty sank onto the couch, eyes half-closed, whispering, "Thank god."
Red muttered, "Don't jinx it."
Kitty didn't laugh.
She just looked tired enough that even Red didn't push.
Laurie, bored and restless, wandered toward the kitchen. Monica followed at a toddler's pace, quiet enough that Laurie forgot she was there.
Laurie climbed onto a chair—again—and reached for the counter.
Monica stayed still, watching.
Laurie's fingers found a bowl.
Then another.
Laurie pushed one.
It teetered.
Monica's mind clicked: Noise will wake Eric. Kitty will snap. Red will explode.
Monica moved—fast, but toddler-fast—grabbed Laurie's sleeve gently and made a small sound: "No."
Laurie froze, offended.
Monica widened her eyes, pointed down the hallway toward the living room, then put one finger to her lips in a "shh" gesture.
It wasn't perfect.
It wasn't a real explanation.
But Laurie understood one thing clearly:
If Eric woke up, Kitty would be unavailable, and the house would become chaos.
Chaos meant Red's temper.
Laurie didn't want Red's temper.
Laurie wanted Kitty's attention.
So Laurie paused, scowled, and climbed down—still angry, but redirected.
Monica exhaled silently.
Then she did something she'd been wanting to do for weeks.
Something called foreshadow, but Monica called survival.
She went to the hall closet.
Kitty kept old shoe boxes on the top shelf—boxes she meant to throw out but never did because Kitty didn't throw out containers. Containers were potential. Containers were comfort.
Monica reached up.
She couldn't get the box down.
Not with toddler arms.
So she dragged a small stool over—slow, careful, listening for footsteps.
She climbed up, heart pounding.
Her balance wobbled.
Then her fingers hooked the edge of a box and tugged until it slid forward into her arms.
Monica sat on the floor with it, breath shallow.
The box smelled like dust and old cardboard.
Inside were scraps of things Kitty had tucked away without thinking: a ribbon from a gift, a folded church bulletin, a torn page from a magazine that had an ad for a sleek haircut Monica recognized as a trend that wouldn't hit Point Place for years.
Monica stared at the magazine scrap, mind sharpening.
That haircut.
That shape.
That styling.
Not now.
Not in 1960 Point Place where most women still lived in curlers and conservative cuts.
But soon enough, fashion would start shifting faster.
And Monica—future cosmetologist, future trend-watcher—could already see the direction the world would move.
She couldn't act on it yet.
But she could remember.
And remembering wasn't enough unless she had somewhere safe to put it.
Monica smoothed the magazine scrap, folded it carefully, and placed it at the bottom of the shoe box.
Then she added the only other "secret" she had right now: the tiny scrap of paper with her early pencil marks from April—the crude lines that looked like nothing, but proved everything to her.
She tucked it beside the folded ad.
Then, after a moment of thought, she did one more thing.
She reached into the kitchen junk drawer—where Kitty kept string, spare buttons, rubber bands—and stole a small handful of pennies.
Not enough to notice.
Just enough to start.
She dropped them into the shoe box.
Clink.
A tiny sound that felt enormous.
Money mattered.
Savings mattered.
Control mattered.
And even if Monica couldn't open a bank account or make investments or write contracts—
she could start a stash.
She could start a plan.
She closed the shoe box and slid it back into the closet.
Not the top shelf.
Not yet.
Somewhere safer—behind a stack of old towels, hidden in the dark where Laurie wouldn't look because Laurie didn't care about towels.
Monica stood, dust on her hands, heart pounding with the thrill of having one thing that belonged only to her.
Her Future Box.
That night, Red came home from work and stood in the living room for a long time watching Kitty rock Eric.
Laurie tried to climb onto Red's chair.
Red snapped at her.
Kitty whispered, exhausted, "Red… please…"
Red's voice went low. "I'm trying."
And Monica sat on the rug with her blocks, stacking quietly.
Because now she had something else besides steadiness.
Now she had a secret.
A beginning.
A place where the future wasn't just trapped in her mind—it was stored, protected, building piece by piece.
Point Place could breathe shallow.
Point Place could pretend.
Point Place could squeeze the life out of people with whispers and layoffs and pride.
Monica didn't care.
Because Monica had been reborn into this house with an adult mind and no power—
and she had just created the first real power she'd had since March 1958:
A plan nobody could see.
A plan nobody could steal.
Not yet.